Does she think of half of the things I think she's thinking of? Or maybe she
has a song stuck in her head. Something like... well, something you'd never
catch her dead singing out loud, so she has to keep it there in the crevices of
her brain while she tried to force it out with another song she truly likes,
like that new song by John Meyer, or that old Beatles song she loved as a kid.
Something about an octopus. Her hands move slowly, and the mechanical pencil in
her hand draws small lines and smooth curves upon her sketchpad. Maybe she's
just focusing on making every bit of the pencil lead count as a piece of her
art. She looks at me, her eyes burning into me, and I smile reassuringly that
things are fine, whatever it is that is apparently wrong. I know she only draws
when something is bothering her. Drawing helps her forget, but this time it is
taking her a while. I wonder, as I watch her wrists tense, then relax as she
added a detail to the page, what had upset her, and what she is drawing. She
never lets anyone see what is in that sketchbook, and everyone is too afraid of
her wrath if she were to catch anyone going through it. Everyone knows she is
tough, but inside that sketchbook is probably proof that she isn't as hard as
she wants everyone to think she is. Not that I would find drawings of Rainbows
and kittens and butterflies... Okay maybe a kitten. She likes cats, or she used
to from what she told me of her past. It is then that I wonder what her art was
like as a kid. She must have a lot of happy pictures buried somewhere, and I
doubt they were anything like the things she must draw now.

I watch her, wishing she would someday trust me enough to show me her
sketches, but knowing I would just have to wonder for now. Her eyes move from me
back to the sketchpad, and her eyes no longer furrow in anger like they had
been. Now they are just concentration. I continue to watch her as she draws, and
her tongue moves out to capture her bottom lip before her teeth scrapes along
its smooth surface. Some of her hair falls down, blocking her view and she
quickly moves it back. I look away, swallowing. She is so beautiful. I wish I
could take away whatever is hurting her, but she would never talk to me. Not
after what we've been through. I'm sure I spaced off, for she nudges me, and I
look up. She smiles warmly. I give her a look that asks what she wants of me.
She looks down at the sketchpad, and then slowly turns it towards me so I can
see what she had done. She seems so proud of it, that I have to see it for
myself, not to mention I have been curious for months. I look at the sketchpad
and gasp.

"That- That's me- It's so real, so beautiful." I say, stammering. It is
almost like looking in a mirror, its so good. The expression in my- in the
portrait me's eyes is curious, almost sad, somewhat bored... everything I was
feeling as she drew. I look up at her as she blushes.

"It's art," she says, and I feel my own cheeks grow hot. She reaches towards
me with the sketchpad, gesturing for me to look through it.

"Can I?" She nods, and I gently take it from her. I open it to the first page
and see... me. More portraits of everyday things.
Sitting down reading a book on my bed. I remember her being there, quietly
drawing because she said she needed company, but didn't want to talk. Another
one of me staring out the window, and yet another of me laughing at something, I
don't know what, but the portrait me looks happy. There is another of me
cooking, looking through a cookbook with a frown as if I had no clue what I was
trying to cook.

The sketchbook is half filled with images of me, and I look up at her,
startled somewhat.

"I try to take the bad in my life and put it away... somewhere where no one
else can see. We always forget the little things, the good, but we get caught up
in the bad things in our day, but I... I want to remember the good. The
beautiful, so I draw it when I am down." She looks away, and I can only stare at
her. I want to tell her that there should be pictures of her in there too, but I
don't. I don't know what to say. So I say nothing. Instead, I force her to look
at me, placing a finger under her chin. I lean in and kiss her. I have wanted to
do that for a long time, but I hadn't a clue as to where we stood. We are so
different, her and I, and I often wondered if a pair like us was meant to be. I
never tried to find out, but now... Now I think I might, if she'll let me.